Robin Chapman posts a poem, most days, from fellow poets with one of her watercolors.

6/16/2006

American Life in Poetry: Column 064

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006Storytelling binds the past and present together, and is as essential to community life as are food and shelter. Many of our poets are masters at reshaping family stories as poetry. Here Lola Haskins retells a haunting tale, cast in the voice of an elder. Like the best stories, there are no inessential details. Every word counts toward the effect.

Grandmother Speaks of the Old Country

That year there were many deaths in the village.Germs flew like angels from one house to the nextand every family gave up its own. Mothersdied at their mending. Children fell at school.Of three hundred twenty, there were eleven left.Then, quietly, the sun set on a day when no onedied. And the angels whispered among themselves.And that evening, as he sat on the stone steps,your grandfather felt a small wind on his neckwhen all the trees were still. And he would tell usalways, how he had felt that night, on the skinof his own neck, the angels, passing.

Reprinted from "Desire Lines: New and Selected Poems," BOA Editions, 2004, by permission of the author and the publisher. Copyright (c) 2004 by Lola Haskins. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.******************************